


The Final Solution-Remake

by arlenejp



Category: Sherlock (TV), Sherlock Holmes & Related Fandoms, Sherlock Holmes - Arthur Conan Doyle
Genre: Expicit Sex in Chapter One, M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-11-14
Updated: 2017-11-03
Packaged: 2019-01-28 11:20:29
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 5
Words: 13,378
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/12605464
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/arlenejp/pseuds/arlenejp
Summary: Jim tricks John.





	1. The Final Solution

**Author's Note:**

> I wrote this a few months ago. This is a total rewrite.  
> Originally I had John and Sherlock committing suicide. But...the characters would not let me do it this time around. No one dies.

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> John and Jim

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This first chapter has turned out with more words than the original. Most of the chapters have now grown in wording. My understanding of how to write has grown immensely. Thanks for all.

The horror of standing on the street watching my Sherlock jump off the roof of Barts Hospital has shifted my universe. He died. In front of me. Guilt. Guilt at what I never said, kept hidden in my heart.

* * *

What would it have been like if I'd told him I loved him, instead of hiding behind my fear of 'gay.' Would he have jumped?

* * *

I have no life to speak of now. I miss the excitement of Sherlock. His sharp tongue, working with the police solving murder cases and other crimes. Miss his violin playing at all hours, yelling at the shows on the telly, playing board games with me.  
I miss Sherlock Holmes.

* * *

I still have other friends, but all are dull in comparison to the consulting detective, Sherlock. I've been steering clear of the lot. Anytime I meet with them I know they've been talking behind my back, concerned for me. And then there's the, am I okay, can I help, come out for a drink, what are you going to do now. Saying how 'sorry' that it happened. Screw all of those 'friends.' I refuse to be a part of it and avoid all of them.

* * *

I move out of 221b, our once home, saying goodbye to Mrs. Hudson, the best landlady one could hope for. "John, you'll come visit, and we'll have tea together. Don't forget me." 

Not sure right now I could come back to this place, this refuge I had from the outside world. I do promise to try to visit. Too many memories here. Too strong. So powerful.

* * *

There's a small flat, one room, on the other side of London. Far from 221B. Why would I want anything bigger, my life is only a one-room flat. My life, shrunk to small proportions. 

* * *

This flat contains the barest minimum, a one burner stove, a bed, desk and chair and the smallest of bathrooms; walls painted in a dull green that looks like it could use a new coat. It's on the third floor, a walkup, no elevator. 

* * *

Money is not a worry as Sherlock has provided for me. That was a surprise! But, of what use is it? What would I buy? Where would I go? At least it means I don't have to find a job; I can figure that out sometime later. When is later? I don't know. 

* * *

I lay on the bed in this one room flat for hours, staring up at nothing or sleeping. Dreaming of Sherlock, our lives together. Well, what once was our life.

Suicide is a constant. I have a gun in the desk drawer and regularly take it out. I've placed the cartridge with the bullets in the clothes bin. It means an extra effort to get it and load the gun.

* * *

After about two weeks of moping around, I'm restless. I've been outside only to buy groceries or takeaway. Mostly takeaway. Can't cook much on a one-burner stove.

* * *

I can't sit in the flat and contemplate my death by my own hands. It's become a joke because I don't want to live but can't pull that damn trigger. Sounds silly, but putting the trigger in my mouth, the image of the back of my head blown off is off-putting.

* * *

Shaving off the beard and mustache I had lazily let grow, dressing in a green and red plaid shirt and khaki pants it's time to go out. I know I've lost weight, my face is haggard, my trousers too large, probably a size larger than I am now.

There's life still in front of me, only in my 30's, slim with blonde hair and blue eyes. Folks have liked my personality, calling me sensitive. But my temper is always at the edge. Waiting.

What will light me up again? Oh, not in the Sherlock way. But even a small light will be better than the existence I've been living.

* * *

Out of the house, it's spring in London, strolling the streets, taking in the scents on the air, the people, most of them not bothering to notice anything around them. It's the city I love. I take time to see the shops, looking in windows, debating if I should purchase anything. Maybe a bookstore if I can find one, loving to read. Paper books, not online books. None on this route that I spot, but will look up one for next time I'm out. If one is nearby you can bet I'll be visiting it.

* * *

I find an Italian restaurant, a small sit down, outdoor cafe, and order the penne pasta with a garden salad. It's tasty, and for the first time in a long time I eat everything on the plate, even sopping up the sauce with bread.

* * *

What next? Don't want to let this day end with my going back to my hole in the wall.

* * *

I ask the waiter about movie theaters near here.

          "Sir, two streets down that way," as he points his hand to the south," a theatre is showing the old movie War of the Worlds. Do you know the movie? "

          "Oh quite. Science fiction is one of my favorite subjects."

          "Down the street further is another theatre playing newer movies. I don't remember the names."

          "Thanks," smiling up at him," I think I'll stick with the old movie."

I pay the bill and walk down the street, and luckily only have half an hour to wait for the beginning of the movie.

The first day that I've smiled since-.

* * *

Yesterday was satisfying, and today, after looking online I've found a bookstore, not a chain and not far from the flat. 

Bent upon being out again I discover the store quite easily. Dusty, old shelves with books and books. Two armchairs, their cushions looking well sat in. A perfect place I can spend hours in, whether reading or perusing the shelves.

* * *

I bought a book on creative writing. Maybe one day I'll take my blog and write it into a book.

* * *

Hunger is now on my mind; it's late afternoon, and I've had nothing since this morning. A light breakfast of tea and two pieces of toast with strawberry jam.

I don't want a sit-down meal.

Ordering fish and chips from a street vendor I meander into the park. Another warm day, another day to be outside.

* * *

Taking a bench, where I can people watch I sip on an iced tea and eat my greasy food. I have a light jacket with me, but it's warm enough to take off and drape over the back of the bench. The book in the plastic bag I sit by my side. Maybe i'll start reading it tonight.

* * *

Scanning faces as I eat, watching and speculating on their lives I'm focused on this play acting I do. What do they do for a living? Are they alone, like me, or married, any children? It was Sherlock who taught me how to deduce people. I'm not near as good an proficient as he was. But it's an enjoyable pastime.

* * *

I'm startled to see a familiar individual strolling in my direction. Someone I least want to be with, let alone acknowledge. A shudder runs through my body. Not him. No way!  
Picking up the napkins and cup empty from the food I finished, taking my book and jacket in hand, making sure my back is to him, I'm ready to move. Hoping he doesn't recognize me.

* * *

Damn, he's right behind me. A touch, a hand on my shoulder, restraining me. I brush it off, no, more like knock it off.

          "Get away from me, you-?"

          "I thought it was you, John Watson."

Pushing away, I walk briskly down the path hoping he won't follow, but he runs after me.

          "John, stop. I know what you're feeling. Hatred towards me, right?" as he trots along with me.

          "You're fucking right I hate you. And if you don't go, I'll call a cop."

          "Aww, come on, give me a chance. You must know I loved him also."

Stopping to look him square on," what a fucking, shit way of showing it. Putting the lives of strangers in danger so you could be acknowledged. How brilliant you were," irony and hate in my voice.

* * *

Jim Moriarty, the mastermind criminal who used Sherlock as his puppet to solve cases that he planted. Jim always used other people do his dirty work. He's a man who knows how to manipulate people. And he did it so well with Sherlock.

* * *

          "Get the shit away from me," and I leave him standing alone, my day not as good as I'd have liked it.

* * *

Each sunny day I've established a bench that I like to sit on in the park. Facing the river and the walk I can study people and enjoy the boats of all shapes propelling towards a final destiny, a dock, a landing, a marina. Every once in awhile the salt water smell is so intense I have to wrinkle my nose.  
Fish and chips, or a taco is my lunch. Sometimes a pop and other times tea. I'm not much of a coffee drinker.

* * *

From behind the bench, Jim pops out.

          "Hi again, don't, don't run away."

          "Fuck off you bum. Go away."

Taking up my food I try to move, to escape him, but he blocks me.

          "Sit with me John; I miss him as much as you do. Give me the chance to explain myself. Why I did what I did. Even though I know, now it wasn't right."

His hand touches my arm a pleading look on his face.

          "That's a joke, Jim Moriarty, what have you got to miss? You tormented him constantly. Now you think you can do the same with me? No! Get your lousy hand off me and let me go."

          "Please John, or should it be Dr. Watson, I'm glad I found you. Listen to me. Help me out here. I did it all wrong. I wanted Sherlock, loved him. But-please-,"

As he's talking, begging, his grip still pulling on my sleeve, his face inches from mine. 

          "I was wrong. I reasoned that having Sherlock solve puzzles, which you know he loved, would bring him to me. I never realized how much he loved you."

          "Yea, so much he jumped off a roof in front of me," disgruntled sounding.

          "Forgive me. Let's be friendly at least. To be able to talk about Sherlock, his life. Please?"

* * *

He did put peoples lives in danger getting Sherlock to work out his little games, his puzzles as he calls them. Jim sounded so sincere now, so open in his need, his need to love Sherlock that he misjudged him. That's possible. It was always hard to keep Sherlock from being bored.

* * *

Thinking he could be repentant, he certainly sounded it. I needed, no, I felt compelled to sit with him, listen to him, try to figure him out.

* * *

          "Okay, you ass hole, I can't forgive the fact you hurt and scared innocent people, you know."

          "Yea, I know. I don't like or understand people. I find most of them boring," hanging his head as a child does.

Chuckling, I answer, "Sherlock was the same way. People were algorithms, always a puzzle to solve. No emotions."

* * *

With that, we sit and without discussing much we watch the boats, Jim getting up and buying pretzels from a stand for both of us.

          "Is it okay to talk about Sherlock, John?"

          "I don't see why not. We both knew him, and it would be refreshing to see the other side of him as you saw him."

It's comforting to have someone who knew Sherlock and loved him sitting by my side. Discussing the good and bad about Sherlock. Soothing, in a strange way, just because it is Jim Moriarty.

* * *

Jim is younger than I, surmising him in his early thirties, dark brown hair, slim and twinkly brown eyes. Captivating most is his smile, sometimes sarcastic looking and at other times pure joy radiates his face.

The sunlight is disappearing, bringing a chill to the air, putting on my jacket to leave, Jim rests a hand on my arm.

* * *

          "Meet me here tomorrow?"

Not knowing why, but maybe, just maybe it's the warmth and loneliness I hear in his voice.

          "I'll bring fish and chips," holding my hand out for a shake.

          "Good, I'll get the iced tea," his hand, as he takes mine, is warm.

* * *

I walk away but turn back to watch him focused on me. Is it possible this is a new Jim I'm seeing emerge?

* * *

On the one hand, there's always Sherlock in our conversations. All his little defects, all his perfections. His ability to deduce, use his enormous brain. On the other hand, I can't forget Jim's manipulation of Sherlock. Putting other people in harm's way just to get himself noticed by Sherlock. It's always in the back of my mind

* * *

We've been meeting for about a week, the weather sunny. But the forecast for tomorrow is rain throughout the day.

* * *

          "John, let's go to a movie tomorrow night?"

          "I know just the place to eat dinner and take in a movie. It's walking distance from my flat."

That is the beginning of our 'dates' if you can call it that. Jim has always struck me as quick-witted and intelligent. And he proves me right. Also very considerate of my wishes.

The weather chills, our outdoor excursions turn to the indoors, and the thought of entertaining ourselves without dropping a load of money.

* * *

Jim invites me to his flat for dinner, he's doing the cooking instead of bringing in takeaway.

* * *

It's certainly a sight better than mine, as I step through the door, taking it in as a first glance.I can immediately see the good size sitting room, and an eat-in kitchen.

His furniture is contemporary. Mostly light woods, glass, and chrome. Everything sparse except for bookshelves crammed with, strangely enough, manila folders. There are books, but the paperwork far surpasses the books.

          "My whole flat can fit into your parlor."

We move into the kitchen where Jim is in the middle of fixing a meal for us.

          "I've had this place for about a year now. You're the first person, other than any of my associates to be here. There are two bedrooms also. The rent for this area is good, and it's quiet"

I'm sitting on the stool at the counter listening to his tales of his time as a child fishing with his uncle.  
He's an accomplished story-teller. Weaving it all in with sounds and hand motions, a laugh here and there.

          "I spent more time with this uncle, my mother's brother than my dad. Dad was a hustler, traveling, never home. Always felt sorry for mom. She raised my sister and me almost on her own."

          "Let me help here. I'm a fairly good cook myself," reaching over to chop up vegetables. I have to admit I'm relishing this time I'm spending with him.

          "Sister? Younger or older? Where is she now?"

          "She's three years my junior, a looker, living in Ireland right now. That's where we hail from."

          "My sister is older and lives near here. We don't get on. She's a drinker like my dad."

I don't go into the why's of it. It turns out she's a lesbian, and dad's not one to understand someone's sexual preference other than how they were born. And so, I don't communicate with him. Don't talk to mom either. In case she lets the cat out, so to speak.

Turns out Jim is a darn good cook. As we sit to eat Jim pours wine, and asks me more about my life with Sherlock. To be honest, we've pretty much exhausted our discussions on him. It's more focused on today, what's in our lives now, and everyday nonsense that all folks discuss.

          "Why not your place next time for eats?"

          "Are you kidding? It's a cell, a cubbyhole. I only have a one burner stovetop."

          "That's settled then. We eat here. Whether takeaway or with both of us cooking."

          "Good, so next time I'll buy the fixings and cook it here."

After dinner, while putting the dishes in the dishwasher, I have to ask Jim.

          "I don't suppose you will or can tell me what you do? I mean to make money?"

          "I'll tell you but let's sit first."

* * *

The light tan armchair is where I settle myself, Jim bringing me another glass of wine.

          "I can't and won't explain too much, as you probably have gleaned from small bits here and there and your way of gathering information, I dabble in exporting and importing of goods. Mostly on the legal side but some black market.

          "Drugs, guns?"

Nothing is said by Jim. I surmise that I'll never know the truth. And don't want to.

          "Now," bending toward me, "tell me what you're going to do with yourself? Yes. Sherlock left you money. But, John, you need something to occupy that mind of yours and your days."

          "Glad you brought it up. I went to a clinic yesterday, and I'm going to work there. It's a new surgery. Sarah, the owner, is eager for another doctor to help out. It's going to be shift work. I'm looking forward to it. To get my hands back into doctoring."

* * *

The following day I start work at the clinic. It's good. Sarah is a kind boss. She's pretty, shy but know's her stuff. It's pretty clear that she's overwhelmed with patients. And it feels nice to get back into the swing of things, even if it's treating minor injuries and cold symptoms. 

* * *

I have a key to Jim's flat and use it frequently. We tend to cook more than having takeaway, and when I have an early shift, I'm always texting him to see what foodstuffs we need before I stop by the supermarket.

* * *

I'm in my flat so little now. Evenings spent at Jim's, days at the clinic. Most of what few clothes I have are beginning to sit in the spare bedroom at his place. I haven't slept over there yet, but it looks inevitable.

* * *

          _Will not be home till eight, but expecting a fantabulous dinner._ A text from Jim.

          _Table set, wine out, dinner at eight_

Chicken fricassee, green beans with almonds, garlic roasted potatoes and for dessert, I bought a chocolate cheesecake. It's a pleasure to cook for someone who relishes food, not like Sherlock. He hardly ate what I cooked.

          "My god, what a great smell!" as Jim, sniffing the air, walks through the door, putting coat and hat in the closet.

          "If the smell is anything close to the taste then you're a better cook than I, Gunga Din. ."

Taken from the poem Gunga Din, 'you're a better man than I am Gunga Din.'

Jim's a book reader as I am, and we've been on this kick of reading aloud to each other in the evenings.

Jim eats heartily, and the chatter was all about the rugby game last night. I played in college, and Jim is a big fan.

Tea and the cheesecake are brought into the sitting room. I'm settling into my seat relishing the taste of the cake and Jim's company.

          "How did your day go working at the clinic?"

          "Very well. I must admit that Sarah has quite a large clientele. Of course, most of it is minor cuts, colds and such. But I get a charge out of taking care of people."

I am learning never to inquire about Jim's comings and goings. Leave it to him to divulge whatever bits he sees fit.

* * *

          "I have a proposition for you, John. Dr. John," a little laugh, a tease. "I'd very much like to have you join me here permanently. Get rid of your cubbyhole, as you call it. We can share expenses. There's the other bedroom for you. What do you say?"

          "This is such an odd situation. At one time you were the enemy. The person I despised the most. Now, though, you've become my best friend. How strange is this?"

He looks at his teacup, not at me.

          "I'm honored to be your friend, your best friend. So," looking up in anticipation," will you come live here?"

With not a shred of hesitation, I agree. We lean in to shake hands.

* * *

I move in with no trouble. There's so little I have that's my own. 

* * *

I do begin to notice peculiarities of Jim's. He's always bringing home brown manila folders which he places, what seems haphazardly on his bookshelves.

Deciding, out of curiosity to take a peek, I see written on each of them a different classification. One, 'writing class' another,'songs I like,' or 'movies to watch.' Strange! But that's not what's in them. Vouchers, invoices, all for illegal comings and goings out of the ports.

After thinking about this, I gather that Jim doesn't want to keep these in his office in case of a raid.

* * *

Winter is mild with lots of sunshine for November.

The flat needs an airing, and as I'm going around opening windows, Jim surprises me with a hug from behind. His arms around my waist, head on my shoulder.  
He turns me to face him. How it winds up with his mouth on mine is a surprise to me. A tentative kiss, just barely touching. He backs off," is this-?"

I push him off, bewildered.

          "I don't know. I don't know how I- how to think about, that- what you did."

Stepping further away from me, down into a chair, in a slightly tremulous voice, "Sorry."

          "No, don't be sorry. It was a surprise. Jim, I'm-" and my ability to articulate is gone.

          "John, let's leave it. Forget it happened," he quickly moves into his bedroom before I can utter another word.

* * *

How do I feel about Jim, as I'm not able to sleep that night? He's been a good companion, easy to get along with, lots of fun. Much more uncomplicated than Sherlock-no stop, stop thinking about that.

* * *

For so many years I've proclaimed myself not gay. But the slight touch of Jim's lips on mine didn't provoke disgust. Rather it was-pleasurable.

So, John, how do you feel about Jim? I enjoy his company. Enough to have him kiss you? Yes, you silly git. All these thoughts run through me as I lie there contemplating a future with Jim. Finally, I roll onto my stomach and with a plan for tomorrow I sleep.

* * *

          _Working late._  
          _Jim, what is late?_  
          _be home around ten_

* * *

I watch him take off his coat, he notices me sitting on the sofa.

          "Why are you up now? Waiting for me?"

          "Come here," standing, gesturing with both hands, my knees weak.

I enclose him in my arms, and my lips find his, barely brushing his own. His hands placed on my waist, his eyes focus on mine as we assess the situation. My lips again touch his, this time he answers back.

He moans, I quickly withdraw, the moan reaching down to my stomach, and turn away, terribly shaken, emotions tangling.

          "Jim-I'm not sure."

          "Take your time."

At which point I move again, my arms draw him into me. His arm encircles my waist and his other to my neck, bringing my face to his. His tongue is out, tasting my lips, pushing open my mouth. Teeth clack, tongues spill out in confusion.  
Moans fill my ears and mouth.

* * *

Pushing away again, this time with my body aching, feeling desire spill from me.  
          "Enough, Jim. Enough."

          "For God's sake John, what is it you want? You're driving me crazy here. One minute-"

          "Stop," I interrupt him. "I don't know. All new to me."

Staring up at him, "What about you?"

          "If you mean have I been with a man before, yes I have, but my life before you is mine. I'm not going into detail."

I can't stop myself. "For entertainment or love?"

Losing his temper, he slings a magazine he picks up, throws it across the room.

          "Jesus, John, what difference does it make? I slept with a man, maybe more, but this is you and I, and you sound like a damn teenager. How many were before me?" in a mocking voice.

Now he's gotten my dander up. Picking up the magazine I fling it in his face and stomp off to my bedroom.

* * *

All night I toss trying to understand, to get my emotions straight. I wanted Sherlock, wanted his body, but fear of my sexuality kept me from saying anything. Fear that he'd reject me because of his leanings. Whatever they were. It was not easy to understand the inner workings of him. He never divulged his past.

* * *

Here's a man not afraid to open up, to tell me he desires me and, even though I'm desirous of him I can't-can't.

* * *

Tension rides high in the house now. Each stepping lightly, moving carefully around each other, the playfulness has gone out of our lives.

* * *

In pajamas as usual which is anytime we're staying home in the evening, I'm making us tea. We've decided on a movie for tonight. I love Jim's big screen telly.

I set the tea and cups on the coffee table. I turn around to tell Jim to sit, look at his face, his eyes, and desire comes over me. I want him.

Closing in on him, he understands my look.

          "No, no, absolutely no. Not this time," as Jim moves his hand and slaps my face, not a love peck but an honest to God open-handed smack, hard enough to turn my head to the side.  
          "I'm not a child; I'm a man. No teasing. Either you give in to me or wank yourself."

His hand slaps my face again.

I lash out by swinging my arm to punch, he diverts it, and I lose my balance hitting the table.

I'm down on the floor on my back, and Jim dives down, his legs between mine before I can sit or stand up. His arms and hands are deflecting the blows I'm trying to rain on him. I'm throwing punches, most not hitting anything with force.

          "I'm a man, John," his lips on my neck, nibbling; the stubble, the roughness of his skin, as he works over to my lips, to my neck, biting my ear.

          "I'm a man John, feel me, feel me against your maleness."

Yes, yes, I'm losing control, his against my now burgeoning hardness.

* * *

Our lips collide, tongues pushing at each other, giving in.

The movement of his hips, warmth envelops me.

He moans against my mouth, sending shivers down on my cock, jumping wildly with his sounds.

His shirt comes off, lifting mine off me.

          "I'm a man and I have hair on my chest. Feel it." Chest to chest, no fulls breasts as a woman has..

          "Jim, no," thrashing my body back and forth. The heat around my cock, aching for release, beginning not to care. Just wanting to let loose.

He's rubbing his cheek against my nipple, then tongue licking. My hands drape his face, pushing him, moving him to more. That tongue, lapping at me, my nipple, my chest.  
          "Yes, yes, keep going." Is that me saying that? My mouth doesn't know what it's saying, and I hear moans, it's from me. My head is twisting side to side, hips arching up towards his.

* * *

Kneeling Jim pulls my pants down to my knees. Staying between my thighs his pants comes off.

          "Oh fucking god, sweet shit" as our cocks touch.

          "A man's cock is rubbing yours, John, Going to come on each other." his voice breathless, moving up and down, our cocks lined up.

White noise, white in front of my eyes, my breath short, gasping, hips pumping, grinding.

Not happening, can't be. He's a man with a cock like mine.

* * *

My breathing catches, hips twitch, balls tighten, and I spill over both of us.

My breath slowly eases back as Jim rolls his hips more, contracting up, and comes.

He's off of me quickly and on his stomach. Our stickiness, the sweat on my body, hits the air, as I shiver.

Jim turns on his side, "John, I'm sorry I hit-,"

A finger of mine touches his lips.

          "Shh, it was needed."

I lie there with closed eyes until I feel a warm, wet flannel cleaning me off.

Without a discussion, I'm up and into the bathroom. Do I go back out and sit with Jim, or head to my bedroom?

          "John, come watch the movie with me?"

His voice is normal sounding, so I hesitantly go back. Without any overt movement, no touching, or looks we sit, watch the show and then off to our individual beds.

* * *

It's Sunday, and both of us are home. After yesterday I still have reservations about sex with a man. It's good, but I can't get over my shame-being thought gay.

Sensing my discomfort Jim is quiet, mainly leaving me to my own devices.

* * *

I opt to discuss the subject after dinner openly and before we settle into a movie. We're both on the sofa, I put my head down, not looking, "Jim, I want to explain."

          "Oh fuck this John, I'm not interested in your explanations. Your stupid excuses. The question comes down to-do you want to fuck me or not. Oh, the hell with this!"

He shoves me down on the sofa getting on top of me.

          "Let's do this all over again. I'm not fucking playing with you anymore," his voice rough. 

Instead of trying to hit him I lie there, no movement from me.

His hand reaches down into and under the waistband of my pajamas, palming my cock. Hips arching involuntarily against his hand.

          "That's a man's hand that's holding your cock, and it doesn't care. It'll come for either man or woman. Now, what do you want?"

          "Give it to me," nearly in tears," teach me."

          "Knew you'd come around, pussy boy." His tone so scornful.

Even I'm eager to release my cock from the pajama bottoms.

Without taking a cue from him I reach to his cock, pumping it to fullness.

          "Let me show you how this is done, John," taking my hand away from him.

I've got one leg touching the floor and one on the sofa. Jim is between my legs, kneeling, taking both our cocks in hand, he fists them.

          "Pump into my hand, John."

Dear god! Our two in his fist, rubbing together, skin against skin.

Faster, faster, the motion unbearable, but more, more, as I buck up.

          "Who's going to come first, huh, pussy boy. Liking what I'm doing, aren't you?" his voice deep and hoarse. Throaty.

I can't speak, grunts and ohs from me.

          "Dah, oh, shit," as I flip my hips and come. Don't know when he does; it could be seconds or minutes later.

Jim rises, and he's cleaning me off with a warm flannel again.

* * *

I'm sitting up, getting on my PJ bottoms, Jim on the floor kneeling by me.

          "Now, is this enough? Do you care whether you're gay, bi or straight?"

A deep sigh, slight laugh.

          "No, it doesn't matter. In the end, it's all the same. But, do me a favor, please stop with the 'pussy boy'".

Laughing, he agrees.

* * *

It's Christmas. We've gone out and bought a live tree, no fake one for us. Laughing and kissing we decorate the tree and hand ornaments from the lamps. Even a mistletoe hanging from the ceiling near the front door.

* * *

We've both cooked the dinner, and the wine has softened the mood along with quiet Christmas music. I'm reclining on the couch, wine glass in hand, looking up at this man I've known as both a villain and now a lover.

Of a sudden, Jim gets down on both his knees, a small box in his hand.

          "John will you-," and he giggles, bringing on a fit of laughter from me. We dissolve into each other, laughing, the ridiculous of the situation catching us unawares. Wiping my eyes and face I agree to marry him.

* * *

He knows that the great love of my life will always be Sherlock.

* * *

          "When do we do it, John? Marry?"  
          "I'd like to wait until spring. It's when we met. Can you wait that long?"  
His mouth kisses around my face," you sentimental idiot, yes, I'll wait. How about a taste of the honeymoon?"

* * *

The justice of the peace marries us with no one present. We both see no reason to invite family.

* * *

Our honeymoon is spent in London proper at a posh hotel, going to shows, Les Miserables, Jersey Boys being two of them. The history museum has always been a top favorite of mine, and I bore Jim with my wandering through it. We pick restaurants we've never eaten in, taking in the streets and sights as if we are tourists.


	2. Jim's Lie

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Jim is lying

I have a goal; the goal is to find John Watson and marry him. Why? Sherlock Holmes. Revenge.

* * *

To start the process, I find out where John is living. A stupid one-room bedsit. He must be in the dumps! To live in a place like that when he has money. I have a police officer on my payroll, and he's been informing me where John spends his days. Warm sunny days at a nearby park on a bench, using the same one if possible, almost every day at the same time each day. I expect him to turn away, to be cautious. I was Sherlock's nemesis. His enemy.

* * *

Upon seeing me, he stands to leave, but I appeal to his good-natured side. Using Sherlock as the weapon.

* * *

Projecting a sad face, "Please John, or should it be Dr. Watson, I'm glad I found you. We're both in a bad place. Sherlock is gone. He only had eyes for you, even though he knew I loved him also. I tried to get his attention in the wrong way, I guess."

* * *

It was so easy to play on his emotions. He's so raw, so open to anyone giving him a fraction of love. If I show humility and kindness, he'll be a pushover.

* * *

That begins our so-called romance. I make sure we hang around together and talk about Sherlock. Always Sherlock. Eating out, dinners in, movies, all the common everyday occurrences that keep the ordinary people happy. It's what we do. And it keeps John in line.

Poor muddling, wallowing John. Lost in his sorrow. His guilt.  
He's so fucked up he can't look past the whys of what I'm doing. Why I'm spending time with him. 

* * *

Moving in with me is the next step. It's easy. He's been spending so much time with me at my place; it's the next step. A step to luring him into my net. 

I'm so happy he has the job working at the clinic. It keeps him occupied and out of the flat more. I'm able to work from the house, on my laptop directing my underlings. He has no idea I work at home. Before I know his arrival I go out and come in later as if coming from my office.

* * *

There is also the matter of sex. I tread carefully. He's a virgin with men. It takes all my patience with him. Doesn't want to admit that he's bisexual. That's the reason that he and Sherlock never ended up in a romantic situation. It took some silly coaxing to get it to happen. When he finally admits that it's okay, he's still not fun. No imagination with him. It's part of the price I pay for my final revenge. Sigh!

* * *

A young man walks into my office one day, swagger showing.  
          "I'd like to work for you, Mr. Moriarty."  
Sauntering away from my desk, stripping him with my eyes, I see a smart-ass.  
          "And your qualifications?"  
          "I'd like to service," I'm not naive, I know just what he means,"you in any way I can. I admire your work greatly."  
Circling him, he stands still with assurance, cockiness. The suit he's wearing is store-bought, not too expensive, his hair military-style, good clean face.  
          "How old are you and your name?"  
          " I'm twenty-four and called Eddie."  
          "Eddie, what?"  
          "Eddie Shiner."  
Physically he turns me on.  
          "Well, Eddie Shiner, let's start you out as a bodyguard for me. Do you know how to shot a gun, use a knife?"  
          "My father is the one who taught me. We always had rifles and guns in the house."  
With a specific nod to him, I understand he means unlicensed guns.  
Shaking hands he joins the small contingent of men that surround me at all times.  
It becomes clear that Eddie Shiner is more than a bodyguard. My sexual advances meet with even more overtures on his part. Our lust takes us all over, wherever we can rut we do. And however.  
Thank goodness for Eddie. I couldn't care if I never go near John again.

* * *

I've primed John as much as possible. And on Christmas, I propose, on my knee, with a ring.  
His romantic side wants to wait until April to marry. That's the month we met. How frightfully boring! 

* * *

My plan continues to jell. Patience is beyond me, liking things to happen now. The result, the end of this will be mine, all mine.

* * *

All this is an end game to something that John has no information about, the simple fact that Sherlock Holmes is alive.

* * *

Someplace in Belarus or Poland trying to eliminate my criminal force.  
I don't care. My organization has grown here in England, Ireland and even stretches across the pond to America.

* * *

John has no clue that Sherlock is alive. Everyone has and is screwing with John. Mycroft, Sherlock's older brother and the champion of Sherlock's supposed death is not going to alert John in any way.  
I know that Mycroft is watching John, and now myself. Mycroft won't do anything to risk Sherlock's life. This must exasperate the older brother. 

* * *

Mycroft and Sherlock had predicted that Sherlock's chances of staying alive were slim to none.  
And that's why Mycroft is letting this happen between John and me. He must see that John is now happy and willing to let it ride for the moment. Who knows what will happen when Sherlock arrives back in London.

* * *

But that's also when my full plan will take place, no matter John Watson or Mycroft Holmes.

I had given specific instructions to all of my minions out in the field that Sherlock was not to be killed. Torture is fine, but make sure he is capable of getting over it.  
I wanted that man alive. For me.  
I'm waiting for Sherlock Holmes to return to England.

* * *


	3. Sherlock

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Sherlock-Alive and Home in England

I'm at my brother Mycroft's office, getting shaved and dressed. It's been two years. Two years of fighting Moriarty's band of criminals. Most of his criminal cells have been taken down. Mycroft has informed me that I still have work to do. Moriarty now has stronger ties to the criminal world here in England and Ireland.

* * *

And now I'm home. Home in London. The emotions are strong. But stronger still is my desire to see John Watson

* * *

Knowing that Mycroft has a file folder on John I ask to see it. Instead, Mycroft relates that John moved out of 221b Baker Street some time ago. But there's a hesitation, a recalcitrance about my brother.

          "What are you keeping from me. Tell me," I ask rather strongly.

          "Sherlock, stay away from John Watson. That part of your life is over."

          "Oh?" I say, my voice rising,"Has he found a woman? Married."

Mycroft chooses not to speak. Something is not right, but with Mycroft, I can't glean information from him as I can the general public. Besides which, he's always been cautious about John and his relationship with me. I'll find out on my own. Plenty of associates to go to.

* * *

As I'm walking the streets of London, taking in the smells, the people, I had forgotten how exhilarating a city it is. Full of life. Full of criminals to take to justice.

* * *

Wending my way to 221b Baker St. my former residence. At the front, I notice the door knocker not fixed yet. Wobbles onto its side. Knocking firmly, my landlady, Mrs. Hudson opens, and proceeds to scream. It's a wonder the neighbors don't have their heads out, peeking, inquisitive as always.

* * *

          "Sherlock, Sherlock," embracing me in her usual bear hug, crying. I hand her the handkerchief I always carry in my coat pocket. It's a good welcome.

After all, everyone thinks I'm dead. I jumped from a building. John Watson saw me. It was in the papers and telly.

* * *

Of course, she has to give me a cup of tea, with the latest in her baking, biscuits. I consent to sit and listen to the latest about the neighbors, of which I don't know or care. 

* * *

          "Where is John," while sipping on the brew and tasting her biscuits.

          "Sherlock, do you mean you never told him you were, are, whatever, alive? How could you?" her voice accusatory, damning me.

          "Well, whatever. I'm sure you had reasons, although, oh never mind," pausing a moment to pour more tea for herself.  
          "Do forget him, dear. I haven't seen him since he moved out. He's never contacted me in all this time. You would think-."  
          "Ah well, I do have the flat available, if you'd be wanting it. Needs a good cleaning."

          "Yes, would love to move back in." moving out of her flat and up the stairs, to memories that assault me.

The sounds. John's tread up the stairs. Us watching telly and the silly comments we'd make. His rattling around in the kitchen making something to eat. I'm feeling very depressed as I leave.

* * *

Where is John Watson? I have to see him. I risked my life, saved his. And now, when I want to see that doctor, blogger of mine he's being purposely hidden from me.

          _Stop being a prig and tell me where John is located. I know you know_

Texting Mycroft.

Text comes right back. 

          _Sherlock, leave him alone. You'll only bring heartache to him_

Feeling helpless without my blogger, my flatmate beside me, I take a cab to Bart's Hospital and to the morgue to see Molly.

Molly is startled, not surprised.

          "Sherlock, why didn't you text me you were back?" Molly was instrumental in helping me jump off the roof and faking my death.

          "How are you?" Not caring really, trying to butter her up as they say.

          "I've got a boyfriend. Looks like we'll get married. I met him through a family friend," shy Molly. Always jumpy around me.

"Are you going back to consulting again?"

          "Not important now. Tell me, Molly, where's John?"

          "He left Baker Street and that's the last I saw of him. Doesn't Mycroft know?"

          "Yes, I am certain he does, but he won't divulge his whereabouts. Keeps telling me to leave him alone."

          "Sometimes its best, Sherlock. Both of you bungled it badly and if he's gotten over you then let it be."

          "I can't Molly." I emphasize it a bit strongly. "Not until I see him and talk to him."

          "Ok, Sherlock, I hope you don't get yourself burned."

She's no help.

* * *

I have an idea. Taking a cab to Police Headquarters, I open the door, and the first person I meet is Sally Donovan.

She looks up, startled, of course, "Are you a ghost, freak?" Her nickname for me.

Going past her I open a door, as she's calling to me,"Lestrade's in a new office. It's that one there,"pointing to one two doors down from his old one.

The door is open, as I walk in, Lestrade is looking down his desk at some papers. 

          "What do you want, Sally?"

          "Its not Sally."

Lestrade's head jerks up, and he's out of his seat in a shot and over to me, hugging me.

          "Oh you bastard! Anderson was sure you were alive and returning. I didn't believe him.Why, why you-? Never mind, you're here, alive."

Greg Lestrade hasn't changed much. I few more grey hairs that's all. Ah yes, divorced. About time. His wife was unfaithful to him a few times.

* * *

I pull away from his hug, sitting down, my gloves off, legs crossed, getting to the point.

          "Tell me where John is Lestrade. I want to know".

          "I don't have any idea. He disappeared shortly after you 'whatever you want to call it' fake died. I'm sure if you ask Mycroft he'll know. Or at least be able to find him".

Putting my head in my hands, tired of the runaround.

          "He knows but won't divulge. I have to see him, Lestrade. Help me please!"

Don't hear the word please often from this tall, curly-headed genius.

          "Are you sure, Sherlock? He might not be wanting to see you."

          "Enough of this. If I have to I'll get my homeless network on it, I will find him," angry with all the deception.

          "All right, I'll put some men on it. Baker Street, right?"

I leave without any more conversation to buy food for tonight. Mycroft has seen to clothing and toiletries for me. It should be at Baker Street. I had texted him advising of my return to the flat.

* * *

Lestrade shows up at the flat within days. He's got a worried look on him. This news is not good.

          "Now sit down Sherlock. This is going to be hard to tell you. How about a cig?"

Pulling a pack out, he takes a seat on the couch. I decline the cigarette. Decidedly bad news. Sitting next to him I'm ready.

          "You're going to be shocked, and maybe repulsed at this."

I sit quietly waiting for whatever bad news he has. I can take it as long as John is alive and healthy.

Lestrade refuses to glance at me- takes a deep breath, and another one.

          "John has been married a few months now. To another man. He lives in his flat".

          "A man. That's in the realm of possibility. You're shielding something else from me."

I can deal with that. The impact of his being married might decrease our ability to tackle criminal cases together. But I can compromise.

He puts his hand on my knee. A gesture which makes my head jerk up to look directly at him. Greg never touches me unless needed. He knows my avoidance of physical contact.

* * *

          "Shit, this is tough. Hate telling you this. John is married to, ah shit, to Jim Moriarty"

* * *

It's like a slow-motion movie. My brain can't compute this. I stare at him, holding my breath, swallowing gulps of air. The terror rising.

* * *

          "He must have been coerced. Wouldn't, couldn't have done it any other way. What could bring him-?"

* * *

There's a tenderness in Greg's voice as he relates more facts of what happened.

          "They met in a park a year ago and continued to go out with one another. I have no idea what Jim did or said. But from my reports, John went willingly. John met him numerous times in the park, and then it progressed from there."

          "I found out recently that Jim has a few of my officers on his payroll."

Hesitantly he continues," one alerted Jim where to meet John, and then others kept track of him. He's working at a clinic as a doctor."

          "Of course, those men are off the force now."

* * *

Why John would even consider being with him? Why?

I'm stunned, sitting still, looking at the floor. Have to ingest this. Work on this.

* * *

          "Sherlock, are you going to be okay? Talk, say something. I'll stay with you awhile if you want me to." He rises and takes a decanter from the cabinet in the kitchen, pouring a drink, then hesitates,"Sherlock-," Before he can ask I tell him no. No drink.

I stand up and pace around the room...appalled, terrified. Jim does nothing without rationalizing, without advancing himself. What could he gain-? Ah, yes, he knows I'm alive. Knew it all along from his network in Belarus.

          "He knew I was alive, knew I'd be coming back." I'm parading the room, mostly gathering data out loud.

Lestrade speaks not a word, as we both absorb this.

Something went wrong. The man I was trying to protect from Jim married him?

          "Are you sure you don't want a drink, Sherlock?"

          "No, leave me alone," shouting at him.

I pause in my walking, to turn to Lestrade "Sorry, didn't mean it. Can't wrap my head around this. Go, leave. This puzzle requires silence and my deducting powers."

          "Only if you promise me you'll be all right for the night. No, you know-"

          "Why would you even think that? Oh, I see, but no, no drugs. No, I promise, and I'll be fine."

Turning as if to ignore him I turn back.

          " Oh, and do you know where they're living?" as casual as I can make it.

I see Lestrade's face drop.

          "No, no, you can't-"

          "Don't worry, I am not going over there and cause a scene." My disgust at that is telling.

          "I'm begging you to be careful. Don't know the how or why but, you and John- you mean the world to me." He's choked up. Have to get him out of here, to think.

          "Come on Lestrade, do you think I would do something to hurt John?"

          " No, but Jim might."

Lestrade, looking tired, sad, gets up off the sofa, hands me a piece of paper with the address.

It looks like he wants to hug me, but I back away.

          "Goodbye Lestrade, and again thanks."

Before he heads down the stairs, he stops, turns, "God, Sherlock, what does that man have in his fucking mind now?"

He walks out, and I plop myself into my chair.

I'm in disbelief. Why? Why? Not right. Hard to accumulate intelligence when my blood pressure has risen. John Watson, in the hands of Jim Moriarty.

* * *

The next morning I take off to my brother's office.

He stands up from his desk, anger written on his face. Seated on the other side is an older man, an ambassador, a gather.

Mycroft turns to the man, "Excuse my brother's rudeness, Ambassador Alanis, will you wait outside while I take care of personal matters?"

The ambassador nods and leaves, shooting me a dirty look.

          "Sherlock, that was uncalled for."

          "Why-?"

          "If I'd have interfered in any way, your work would be compromised."

          "Couldn't you have used your influence to warn Jim off?"

          "And risk both you and John?"

I was beginning to understand.  
          "It was unfortunate that they married. That matter can be taken care of. Don't go, Sherlock. John will assume, once he realizes you're alive, that you don't want to see him. He's better off this way."

* * *

I turn on my heels, not answering and leave. What to do next? I had to see John and get an explanation. Why my enemy?


	4. John's Surprise

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> John gets a surprise

Life is going nicely for us. A quiet life, sometimes dull. I'm not in love with Jim, and he knows it, but he treats me well. It's an easy relationship.

* * *

I like working in the clinic. Sarah is a mellow boss. I have free rein, to come and go, as long as I cover my patients. I've continued my studies on the latest medical procedures, to keep me up to date. To be honest, most of the patients I see have minor aches and pains, colds and such.

* * *

As a side note I'm getting a kick out of cooking and have pulled recipes off the internet, established a notebook online for fish, meat, chicken to try. Each week I'll pick two, grocery shop, and spend an evening in the kitchen banging pots and pans. Jim's used my notebook also, and between the two of us have culinary skills surpassing how we started a year ago.

* * *

Jim has entrusted me with the care of the flat. It became clear that all his folders in his bookcases were out of bound. The only thing I have done is straightened them out so that they look less messy.

When Sherlock was alive, I had to clean up, not only paperwork but the house. He was lazy about that.  
At least Jim keeps a clean house, although when he cooks, food is all over.

This evening, after dinner we're discussing a summer holiday. Both of us have never been to America. Trying to figure out which city or cities we'd want to visit.

I've got a map pulled up on my laptop, trying to see about east coast or west. We're laughing as we try out our American accents on each other.

Jim is in the bathroom and the doorbell rings.

          "I'll get it," I yell to Jim, as I open the door, looking out, freezing, then shutting it with a loud bang.

I see a ghost! The breath whooshes out of me. Eyes widened. A big gulp of breath, another and another.

Carefully I open the door, go to slam it shut again, but the man at the door pushes it open.

Shit, shit, shit!

'The man' being Sherlock Holmes. In the flesh. In person. Standing in the doorway, coat, curls, cheekbones and all!

* * *

          "You fucker! You 're supposed to be dead!" My breath hard, fists curled. Wanting to hit him, no hit something.

          "Not dead," he says, a cockeyed grin on his face.

          "Ah, it's finally you! Oh do come in won't you?" Jim steps in seeing who it is and is not surprised.

He bows low, mockingly and sweeps his hand for Sherlock to enter.

I look at Jim like he's some crazy man, and he's beaming!

          "It's finally you? What the fucking shit does that mean?" My eyes going from one to the other.

          "Come on John, be a good guest and let him into our," emphasizing our, "house."

Stunned, I open the door wider, step aside and Sherlock walks in.

I can't say or think, baffled by it all, standing dumbstruck. Making a croaking noise, deep in my throat.

          "I've been waiting for this moment, Sherlock," Jim invites him to a chair in the living room, ignoring me entirely.

Sherlock doesn't sit. He looks confused and doesn't know who to look at.

I'm still on my feet between Jim, sitting and Sherlock standing. I can't control all these unsure, unbelieving images running through my head. Sherlock alive, Jim knowing, Sherlock here, Jim a liar.

How? When? My eyes narrow, I squint at Jim, the distrust gathering in me, feeling victimized. 

          "Wait a minute, you mean you knew he was alive all along?" 

Jim knew that Sherlock was alive, and yet went through with this charade? I'm struck with horror. This marriage?

Finding my voice, the pitch higher than usual, "what kind of game are you playing? And why me?"

Looking only at Sherlock, Jim cocks his head, a quiet voice, but with a mocking tone, "Sherlock, you haven't congratulated us. John and I are married now."

          "So I have heard." Sherlock stands still, hands at his side.

Out of the corner of my eye, I notice Sherlock's stance, he's all wound up, stiff, waiting, watching.

          "Jim, you planned all this, didn't you? That first day you saw me in the park. Or, was that a set-up also?" I looked askance at Jim, infuriated, barely holding onto myself.

I pivot around to Sherlock.

          "No, No, I refuse to be a part of this. You're just as bad as he is, "pointing a finger at Jim, a shaky finger while my eyes are on Sherlock.  
          "Pretending to be dead and not letting me know. I want you out of here right now and, you, you, Jim," turning to face Jim," have some explaining to do"

Jim gives me a 'poor John' look and replies, 

          "It's simple John, I knew Sherlock was alive all along and decided to make this the final pip... the final solution to our problems."

At this point I lose it, I swing about and let a punch fly at Jim, who dodges it, quickly throwing himself up and out of the chair as Sherlock suddenly grabs me from behind.

          "John, calm down. That's not going to change anything. Let's appraise the situation and see what Jim's terms are," Sherlock struggles with holding onto me, as he tries to keep me far enough away from Jim for me not to throw a punch.

          "This is my playing field" Jim goes on," and we'll do as I say right now. Same as before you jumped. Your friends are under observation. I can give the word anytime to have them eliminated."  


        "Now, let my John go," as he emphasizes the 'my.'

I have my fists balled as Sherlock releases me. Squaring my shoulders, Sherlock takes hold of one of my fisted hands on the side that Jim cannot see. He squeezes it tightly.

Jim leisurely, and knowing he has the upper hand, sits down again, stares up at both men standing before him. 

          "Yes John, I planned this, from the start. I knew where you were, knew how to manipulate you. You've been at times an intriguing partner and other times extremely naive, lifeless almost."

Squirming in his seat, Jim feasts his eyes on Sherlock, wistful as if drawn to another time. I'm not in the room, as far as the two are concerned.  


          "I do love you Sherlock, darling. Have always since back in university. Remember those days? You were my idol. I secretly followed you, watched what you did, tried to emulate you. So many of the guys made fun of you, mocked you for your intelligence and humor. But, I was never one of them. You thought I was one of the mob, in with that crowd and you ignored me, never looking at me. How many times I tried and tried to get your attention." Jim's face is scrunched up, anger showing.

          "I was devastated when you left before the second term, never giving me a chance." Jim pouts, absent in his thoughts, shakes his head and stands up.

          " Ah well, that was then and this is now."

Shaking his body as if shaking off the old vestiges of those days, he straightens up and that shit grin is back.

          "It's obvious you still care for each other, and I'd like to witness that caring, that loving."

Sherlock tenses up understanding this will not be pleasant. Suddenly trusting Jim is no longer viable, Sherlock and I in sync with each other.

"Whatever you have in mind, let John go. You already have him. Do with me what you will."

"So noble of you! That will also come to Sherlock-dear. In time." He pauses as if he's relishing the next statement, rolling the words over his tongue.

"First, because you will never be together, I'd like you to take your pleasure with each other. Ah, what the hell, I want you to two to fuck."

I lunge at that insensitive, disgusting man, but because Sherlock has my hand, he jerks me violently back.

          "Thank you, Sherlock, don't want our pet to get out of hand, do we?"

Jim, crossing his legs, lingers over his next thought.

          "Second, it will be while I watch."

          "Fucking pig, cock suck-."

          "Oh, do shut up, John," Jim interrupts my string of curses.

          "Consider it my little present to you both. You're first and last time together."

Trying to assimilate all that's happened in these last few minutes, my stance tight, a ball, ready to hurtle myself at him. 

Jim looks amused, switching his gaze from Sherlock to me, "Well, what do you say? Shall we go into the bedroom where it's more comfortable?"

          "Jim, you can't mean this," Sherlock says seemingly calm.

          "Want to take that chance?" Jim growls, up from the chair, but before going to the bedroom, Sherlock's arm goes out, placing his hand on Jim's shoulder.

          "Jim, give me and John a moment alone and then we'll follow you," Sherlock, his voice smooth, soft. Trying to keep all from falling apart.

Jim nods his head, and into the bedroom closing the door behind him.

We turn, looking at each other. I can't honestly believe I'm in the presence of Sherlock Holmes. Alive.

Very quietly, in his deep baritone voice, "Nothing to say, no apologies needed, John. He's spent a long time planning this. His network here is still running strong. He can have anyone killed he wants." 

          "Sherlock, I know he means it. The fucker worked this out well. If I had only known, known you were alive, Just one word, Sherlock, one word. I would never have been taken in by him. I would have waited for you." Moving In closer, as we're talking, our bodies inches apart.

          "I, I should have said this long time ago." Short breaths, my hands clenching and unclenching.  

        "I, I, oh shit, I love you. I'm gay; I'm whatever. It's you I want and I'll take this, whatever he wants to call it, and remember it the rest of my life."

Sherlock nods his head, "John Hamish Watson, I love you. Will always love you." Into an embrace, our first kiss, tender, loving.

          "Now, square your shoulders, soldier, and let's do this."

          "Let's make this the best fuck we've ever had," looking up at my love," a joke well needed right now."  
Sherlock, looking down at me with those blue-green eyes, leans for another kiss, opening the door, to find Jim sitting in a chair, reading a magazine.<

* * *

          " I'm not here to give instructions, but, if by some chance you'll like me to join I will," he chuckles.

Discarding each article of clothing, our backs turned not only from each other but from our adversary. 

* * *

The magazine drops to the floor, "Aw, come on guys, show some love here."  
Sherlock and I turn to each other, my eyes darting all over except to him, he touches my hair. I grab his other hand, now look into his eyes, we advance towards the bed.

A big breath escapes us both, nothing can change or diminish our love. I see it in Sherlock and he can plainly see it in me.

          "That's a good start, now continue" Jim, putting the magazine on the table and sitting up straight.

Sherlock whispers in my ear," it's the two of us, he's not here. Just us and our love."

Taking charge, I think I have more experience than my lover, we remove the last remnant of clothing, the last remnant of doubt, ignoring the man sitting in the room. 

* * *

I'm with the love of my life, and that's all that matters right now.

* * *

There's silence as we come up out of our shared expression of love. Startled into realizing that Jim has left the room, I throw on my pants, walking out, "Sherlock is taking me home Jim, and you can't stop us."

          "Oh yes I can, we're still married."

          "No, you cannot keep me here. I'll stay married to you, but my body is not going to be here."

          " John if you do not honor your vows I'll pull the trigger on, let's see," and Jim looks up to the ceiling, finger on his chin," how about Mrs. Hudson."

          "Ah no, Sherlock, don't dress. It's my turn, with you, so get on the bed." Jim bellows.

I pick up my clothes back in the room, turn away as Jim enters, and Sherlock sees me leave. I feel good that Jim is not insisting I stay there. As I shut the door, I hear Jim, "make it as if you mean it. Make love to me, my Sherlock."

* * *

Jim is back out, buttoning his shirt up, yelling, into the other room," Okay Sherlock, get the hell out of here and leave us alone. You don't contact John at all. Got me?"

I've been seated in my armchair all the while, thankful the door has been closed. Squinting my eyes at my laptop screen, keeping the tears at bay. Sherlock rounds my chair, his hand sweeps my shoulder. I hear the door slam shut. He's gone.

* * *

That's it. I throw myself up and out of the chair, and to the bathroom, banging the wall with a fist, flinging the door shut.

Bursting into tears, bemoaning my fate. I'm stuck with this demon. In the depths of despair now.


	5. Tragic Ending

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> How do John and Sherlock find love?

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Major death

It's not easy for me now. Knowing Sherlock is alive. Knowing I'm stuck in this position, with Jim.  
That first night I refuse to lie with Jim in our bed, sleep, when it comes, is on the couch.  
Is there a threat to kill Mrs. Hudson, Lestrade, or is it a fiction that Jim keeps up.  
Why keep me and not go after Sherlock?  
What is next on Jim's agenda?

* * *

In the nights that follow I take up residence in the spare bedroom. Replaying our one night together. Sherlock, his body, naked, touching, our hands moving, caressing, our love saturating every pore, my arousal, his arousal, his sounds. All that is precious to me. A piece of time I can't forget. 

* * *

Jim hasn't taken advantage of me sexually. I suspect a lover is in the wings. But I don't give a fucking care.

* * *

A week goes by and I'm coming out of the funk I was in. Time to investigate and work on getting out of this situation.

* * *

          _Sherlock_

          _Sherlock, let's talk._

He's not acknowledging my texts.

Mycroft has always made sure Sherlock had a mobile, he would break them with startling regularity and Mycroft would as quickly buy one.

Besides, Sherlock always would pick up immediately when he saw it was me ringing.

* * *

Time for a call to his brother.

          "Mycroft," getting him on my mobile, "Is Sherlock all right? He won't-"

          "John, stop. Sherlock won't respond to you. It's too complicated right now. Your life with Jim must continue."

If Mycroft can't see a way out then what is there for me to do?

* * *

The only way, as slim as it might be, is to appeal to Jim. There had been a sense of peace once with Jim before all this, which has now been replaced by unease and disgust.

* * *

Moping about the flat, playing games on my laptop, I wait for the evening and his return home.

* * *

Hearing him turn the key, opening the door, my nerves jangle. I put the laptop aside and try to relax in my chair. A cup of tea on the table by me. Wanted whiskey or beer but if Jim smelled that it would turn him away.

* * *

          "Waiting for me? You want to discuss an out, don't you, you-?" There's sarcasm in his voice. Toeing his shoes off, he hangs his coat up, all the while watching me.

Arms spread out over the top; he presses his lips together. His nose wrinkles.

I'm still in my PJs, and I haven't showered.

* * *

          "Why are you holding me here? Why not claim Sherlock now?"

          "That's my business, and I do as I please."

          "How long do you think I'll stay here?" snarling at him.

          "Until you know that your friends are safe," replying with a snarky voice.

* * *

          "Jim," sitting on the edge of the chair, bending towards him," I don't get it. Why keep me here when you know I despise you, want to be-."

          "Stop," his hand stretches out as if to clamp on my mouth.

          "You're playmate is going to be mine soon. Make no mistake about that."

He's up and into the kitchen foraging for food, leaving me here, holding my temper in check.

* * *

Have I made a miscalculation? I surely thought keeping John with me would satisfy my lust for revenge.

My initial consideration, no my goal was to have Sherlock with me in the end.

That, I, with my superior mind, my abilities to analyze situations would bring Sherlock to me, if for nothing else then the challenges we could bring each other.

Instead, Sherlock has not come begging. Indeed I expected daily emails, texts, imploring me to let John go. I had reasoned that after the second or third request I would give in, and Sherlock would be mine. Why is he so quiet?

* * *

What went wrong here? Now I'm stuck with this person, this toy, this puppy dog.

Something is awry, and I can't figure it out.

Time to take the bull by the horns and text the man.

* * *

          _Sherlock, meet me at Barts in room 238 at nine tonight_

          _What for_

          _About John_

          _will be there_

I knew that would entice him.

* * *

Pacing the room, waiting for Jim, Molly comes in. I had seen her earlier and asked to have two coffees, and pastries brought up. She knows I'm about to meet up with Jim.

        "Good luck." and walks out.

* * *

We're in a doctors office, Dr. Winding, and it's floor to ceiling books. Aren't all doctors offices book-laden?

A large dark green sofa, one of those squishy leather kind and a similar color armchair, dark wood desk, and chair make up the furniture in the room.

I'm striding the small space around the furniture, not able to compose myself. John is the only one who can tangle my thoughts.

* * *

Jim steps into the office.

          "I've had coffee and pastries brought up. Have a seat."

His coat is thrown off, over the sofa, as he sits, shifting his pants legs, a flirtatious behavior about him.

          "Sit my dear Sherlock, let's chat."

* * *

Sitting in the armchair and affecting as much of a casual attitude as I can, I wait to hear his offer.

          "Your John, how do you manage?" A fake yawn, eyebrows in the air.

          "He's boring."

When I don't respond, he furrows his brow, crosses his legs.

          "I have a wonderful proposition for you. Aren't you going to show any interest?"

          "I'm waiting, anticipating, hanging on your every word," tapping my fingers on the arm.

          "My proposal," and here he giggles,"That's a good word, proposal. You take John's place. Live with me, eat with me, screw with me. John gets a divorce, and we marry. But you can't, can't see John. Try to, and I'll take down one of your friends."

Steepling my fingers under my chin, I give the impression I'm digesting this notion.

          "Is it possible to discuss this with John?" I know he'll decline.

          "It's not his decision to make. You and me."

          "Give me time, then," getting up to leave.

Jim jumps up, grabs my coat, spins me around and forcefully plants a sloppy, demanding, desperate kiss on my mouth.

Shoving him fiercely away, I quickly move out.

* * *

I've lost my job at the clinic. I've been away too many days, Sarah needed a more reliable person.

This leaves me with nothing to do, sitting on my hands. My mind whirring around.

* * *

One evening I'm lying on the couch, Jim's arrival noticed but not acknowledged.

          "For god's sake, John, snap out of it, eat dinner with me. What good is this doing?"

Facing him I growl, the sound of my voice brings Jim's hand to my face, slapping hard.

Turning away, I can't even get up enough emotion to slug him.

* * *

Jim works late many a night, and I want a drink. Many drinks. I get out of the flat to my favorite pub.

After two drinks, quickly downed, I'm surprised to have an old friend take a stool at my table.

          "Damn you, John, where have you been hiding? I've texted you a few times, and you don't answer."

Grabbing the beer he ordered for himself, I down it.  


          "Hey, if you want another beer that much let me get you one. Be right back."

He's got three mugs in his hand, placing them on the table and hopping onto the stool.

          "Now, what's going on? And why the sour puss?"

          "I got married. In the spring."

          "That's wonderful,"clapping me on the back," but, from the look of you it's not?"

His voice ending on a high note.

          "Wait," before I can utter a word," Sherlock is dead. So who?"

* * *

I disclose my story, my shame at being taken as a chump is written all over me.

Mike listens intently, not interrupting, both of us swigging our beers.

* * *

          "John, that's horrid. What can I do to help?"

Mike has been friends with me since college years and even interned with me at Bart's Hospital.

Shaking my head, it makes me wobble on the stool. Too much beer, too fast, wanting to vomit.

          "Let me get you a cab. Go home. I know it's not the best but get sleep. Something will happen if I know Sherlock and his brother."

Outside with me, while waiting,"Let's meet again here. At least it's a getaway for you."

I agree to text him when Jim is on a late night.

* * *

A text come through from Mike days later.

          _Meet me at the pub tomorrow night if you can. Interesting news._  
          _Yea, I can_

* * *

Mike's at the table two pints of beer already there and paid for.

          "Toast, to ammunition," raising his mug high.

          "What the hell is that supposed to mean?"

          "You're married, right? I found out Jim has a boyfriend who he fucks all over town."

          "How do you know that?"

          "I met the kid, he's young, at an engagement party for one of my students. He was drunk and climbing all over one of the men. Zack wanted him off, and away from him. I pulled this kid into a bedroom, fucking drunk, this punk was. He kept grabbing at my crotch. I got him to lie on the bed and, without any prompting began to recite a litany of where he'd been screwing this man James Moriarty, his boss. Before leaving him to sleep it off, I got more information. He's one of his so-called guards. It seems they've been at it for months."

* * *

          "So no big deal to me. That's why he isn't fucking me, and I'm so glad," raising my glass high and taking a long swallow.

          "John, don't you see, you can get a divorce. Alimony, maybe."

I had left off the part about his holding our friends accountable the last time we were in this pub. I recited the rest of my story to him.

          "Sorry, man. Thought-"

Putting my arm around his shoulder," Thanks, good try."

Again I get myself stewed. Mike seeing me into a cab.

* * *

Surprised to see a text from Mycroft two days later.

          _Meet me at the Diogenes club at two tomorrow. Tell no one._

* * *

I conceal my hope by sitting with Jim to have dinner that night after showering and shaving.

          "Glad to see you in a better state of mind."

Not in the mood to discuss anything deep, I put on an amiable face and we chat about silly things..

* * *

Two in the afternoon, a rainy one, finds me in Mycroft's club office. It's a dark, old-fashioned feel with leather chairs, books floor to ceiling, a large dark mahogany desk and a sideboard with liquor bottles atop.

Mycroft pours us a drink, and we eye each other. I'm always on edge with Mycroft.

          "To the point, John. I have it in my confidence that Moriarty will have two shipments of an illegal nature arriving at one of the smaller ports of the Port of London on Tuesday. The out of the way port is to hide the cargo. Chinese contraband. We're going to let it slip by. The second shipment arrives the week after, also Tuesday. They'll be MI agents waiting to take control. Moriarty has gotten sloppy. Once done our agents will be taking Moriarty into custody."

* * *

          "And what am I supposed to do? I imagine you have something specific in mind?"

          "Your assignment is to gather any documents about the two shipments. We know he keeps his cache of illegal invoices at the flat. Once you have them, leave the flat immediately, taking nothing but the documents, you understand, nothing, and move to this hotel," as he hands me a paid voucher for The Armory Hotel.

          "You will remain there, no visitors, no calls, no texts," his look stern, unyielding in the declaration.

Part of me is singing for joy. Could this be the end of my ordeal?

          "Don't ask any questions. Do as you're told, nothing more. Now go."

* * *

Practically sailing out of there I run home. It's going to be hard to contain myself these coming days.

* * *

          "I'm so sorry for the way I've acted, Jim. I needed time to sort this out," that night as we eat and watch telly. Hoping to divert his attention to my real state of mind.

Still refusing to sleep in the bed at least he thinks I'm coming around.

* * *

The first Tuesday and Jim's late coming home. I'm watching the news on telly, turning to face him.

          "Everything good?"

          "Ecstatically so, my friend," watching as he dumps a large brown folder on his desk.

          "Why not sit with me and watch a show," patting the sofa cushion next to me.

          "Nah, thanks. Too tired." He departs for his room.

The folder I file on the shelf of the bookcase. I write on top of the folder, 'Receipts from my travels.'

* * *

The next Tuesday I wait, fear and anticipation grip me. This is it, John, I think to myself.

* * *

          _Tonight, papers and go._  
Mycroft's text comes on my mobile.

* * *

Jim walks in, all disheveled, throws a folder on his desk, coat on the floor, as he's going to the bedroom he motions to me to stay away from him. The door slams shut.

* * *

I move silently to the desk, take the folders, the old and new and other papers I had stashed under the sofa and quietly shut the door, leaving the flat, taking a cab to the hotel.

* * *

The room is not sumptuous but good for now. An attendant knocks and hands me a large envelope. Upon opening it, I find cash. A note. 'Use this for sustenance. Clothes and toiletries are being delivered to you tomorrow. Do not leave the room. I emphasize, do not leave the room.'

* * *

The next day I have a delivery of two suitcases, brand new, inside are new clothes and toiletries. Knowing Mycroft, they will fit me perfectly. I can tell that Sherlock's influence has played a part in the buying. He tends to dislike my jumpers, so there's very little of them. The shirts are a mix of plaids and simple colors. High quality, something I would not buy because of the price.

* * *

On the nightly telly news, there's a story of a big drug bust and a round-up of the ringleaders. And there-being dragged away by MI agents is Moriarty. Everything is working to perfection.

* * *

I'm holed up here for three more days. Spending my time watching telly, reading the newspapers brought to me and waiting. Not too patiently.

* * *

I hear a key slide in the lock and tense up. I've had no visitors except the attendant, and he knocks.

Standing to face whoever it is I'm pulled up short. It's Sherlock. The door automatically shuts with a clack. He's here, flared coat, curly hair and all.

The room heats up. I'm flushed and don't know what to do or say.

          "Oh, for god's sake sit down John. Stop staring. You'll ruin your eyes."

Sherlock, cursing? Making a joke? He must be stressed.

His coat and gloves land on the floor, and he moves to the chair across from one I sat in.. Just like Baker Street.

* * *

The stillness that is enveloping the air, the spoken words, but unexpressed since the incident with Jim.

I clear my throat," Sherlock, what-"

          "Let me disclose what the process is now. Mycroft is obtaining an annulment for you. Jim is in prison. You're exonerated from all of Jim's activities once Mycroft finishes the paperwork. Mycroft insists you stay here until further notified."

The smallest of grins appear on the angular face," back to Baker Street, my love."

**Author's Note:**

> I've been taking classes, learning more about how to write.  
> Looking back at my early stories it's now obvious how much I've learned.  
> If you wish to read the early Final Solution here is the link. http://archiveofourown.org/works/10546888  
> If you like please send kudos my way and read some more of my fics.


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